


Symptom for the Cure

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: D/s overtones, Enemas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:32:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Tommy wants to do is go find a hole somewhere, crawl into it, and die. He can't believe he let Adam talk him into going to see a doctor over this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symptom for the Cure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sulwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/gifts).



Leaving the whole fucked up works dumped on the bathroom floor, Tommy resolutely limps back to bed. Heavy hotel curtains block out the bright midday sun, the gorgeous miles of summertime Sydney that he should be out there enjoying. He burrows under the blankets like a groundhog, skin clammy and guts aching. This is not part of the fucking glamourous rockstar life he'd envisioned.

His phone beeps and he ignores it. Sleep comes in snatches, tiny teases of relief before the dull, throbbing discomfort in his belly inevitably spikes, shredding his slow, careful breaths to shaking ribbons. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut against a hot prickle.

Dimly, he hears the phone beep again, then a soft knock on the door. He tugs the duvet closer, hiding. Adam is honestly the last person he wants to talk to right now.

Adam cautiously calls, "Baby?" as he opens the door, then, "Oh, honey," as he spies the lump of blankets. Tommy holds very, very still, as if that's really gonna convince Adam he's magically elsewhere. A few seconds later, the mattress dips gently as Adam sits down.

"Fuck," Tommy mutters.

"If you didn't want me to check on you, you shouldn't have given me a keycard," Adam says, irritatingly logical. One hand settles carefully on Tommy's back. "It didn't work?"

"Didn't try," Tommy mumbles, stubbornly staying buried in the dark.

For a long minute, Adam doesn't say anything. He finds Tommy's shoulder through the blankets, rubbing slowly, soothing. Tommy breathes a little easier. Then a fucking donkey nails him in the gut and he groans, stretching out in a vain attempt to ease the pain before giving up. He curls around the dull ache in his belly, hunched up and panting.

Adam tugs lightly on the duvet. Tommy doesn't have the strength to stop it from sliding down over his nose. Cool fingers push damp hair back from his forehead. "I know you don't want to hear this, but if all those pills didn't do anything, maybe you should give what the doctor said a try."

All Tommy wants to do is go find a hole somewhere, crawl into it, and die. He can't believe he let Adam talk him into going to see a doctor over this. It happens, it's not like it's some big life-threatening thing. So some over-the-counter stuff didn't work right away. Whatever. Eventually, it'd have to.

At least he'd put his fucking foot down about Adam going into the exam room to see the doctor with him. Though he's pretty sure Adam cornered the poor guy after and grilled him seven ways to Sunday about the whole thing. Adam does crazy shit like that.

Adam sighs. "I wish you'd let me help."

"S'helping," Tommy lies, nudging at the hand Adam's left resting lightly on his cheek.

"I mean really help. He said it might be hard for you to do on your own."

"Goddammit," Tommy groans. "I knew you'd talk to him." Going to the clinic was bad enough. Buying the stupid kit from the pharmacy next door while Adam hovered all mother-hen was mortifying. He can't even think about using the fucking thing, let alone having Adam around while he does.

"I get it," Adam says. Wheedles, in that fucking _please let me fix it_ tone. "It sucks. You think it's gross. But I don't care. It'll make you feel better. I want you to feel better, baby."

Tommy aims a wary glare over the rumpled heap of blankets. "You want to shove a rubber tube up my ass for me."

"Wouldn't be the first time I shoved something up there for you," Adam says, mouth quirked sharply at the corner. The edge of his smile softens again fast. "I'd do worse."

With a miserable noise, Tommy drapes his arm over his eyes. He already pretty much knew this wasn't going to go away on its own, but he'd wanted so bad to believe it would. And now Adam's not going away. Not that he wants Adam to go away. Or that he really wants Adam to stay. What he wants is for this whole stupid, messed up situation to fuck right off.

"Okay," Tommy mumbles, still hiding behind his arm. "If it'll-- _Fuck_. Tired of being stuck in here."

"It won't be as bad as you think," Adam promises, the bed shifting again as he stands, leans down again to give a quick peck of a kiss to Tommy's hair. "Can you get up on your own?"

"Not a total invalid," Tommy complains, and pushes at the covers. He scoots carefully over to the edge of the bed, sitting there for a moment before attempting to get up. Light streams out from the bathroom, along with the quiet hush of running water. Gritting his teeth, one hand on his belly above the sagging waistline of the loosest pair of sleep pants he owns, Tommy stands. The dull, insistent ache settles lower. Fucking gravity. Moving is such a bitch.

"Not in here," Adam says, emerging from the bathroom with an armful of towels, the kit balanced on top and the goddamn shower curtain trailing from his elbow. "Just give me a second."

In a daze, Tommy watches Adam strips off all the sheets, leaving behind only the bottom one and the pillows. The rustling shower curtain goes on the bed first, then one after the other every single fucking towel in the place. Adam stands back, sizing up his handiwork, brow crinkled like he's seriously considering calling up Housekeeping for a few more.

"Should be okay," Adam decides. His palm settles warm and gentle on Tommy's hip. "Can you take these off for me, baby?"

Tommy tugs at the knotted drawstring. "I can't fucking believe I'm doing this."

"There are some pretty serious studies about the health benefits of enemas," Adam says casually, crouching down to tug Tommy's pants away from his feet.

"Fuck," Tommy says, squeezing his eyes shut. That fucking word. "You had to say it."

Adam's fingers brush Tommy's cheek, tucking a bit of hair behind his ear. "There's no reason not to. Come lie down," he says, steering Tommy back to the bed. "On your side, that should be easiest for you."

Tommy settles down as best he can, feeling weird and exposed. Beneath the ache, his nerves are a balled-up, buzzing mess in his belly. He cringes at the sound of sloshing water, makes the mistake of looking up to see Adam hooking the plastic bag onto one of the darkened lights above the bed. It looks bigger when it's full. There is no way all of that is going inside him. He shivers. "This sucks."

"Only for a little while longer," Adam says, and he sounds so sure Tommy almost believes him. Wants to believe him. But the doctor was very, very clear with the instructions. This could take awhile.

Adam's hand curls behind his knee. "Move your leg up a bit for me, baby. That's it," Adam says, urging Tommy's leg higher, making sure he keeps the other out straight so he's spread, opened. Behind him, Adam is a heavy, dark presence. He has to squeeze his eyes shut tight again. _Now_ he's exposed.

The familiar click when Adam opens up the lube sends his stomach plummeting down to his toes. He flinches from the push of slick fingers between the cheeks of his ass, breathing hard. Adam's other hand is on his hip, gentling, but it's not really making this easier. There are no words to describe how much he really doesn't want to do this. He's fucking uncomfortable enough already, putting more stuff up inside him isn't going to help. It's not going to help at all.

Endless minutes go by before Tommy realises Adam's hand has moved from his hip to his stomach, softly rubbing the worst of the ache away. His eyes blink slowly open. A few of the lamps are on, filling the room with a warm yellow glow. Adam is at his back still, down on both knees, leaning close.

"Sorry," Tommy mumbles. He knows he tensed up too much for anything to happen. Nothing like a good old-fashioned borderline freak-out.

The mattress shifts as Adam shrugs. "I can wait as long as you need me to. Ready to try again?"

"No," Tommy says, "but the longer I'm lying here naked with my ass squelching, the less ready I'm gonna be, so whatever."

He expects Adam to make that pissy noise, the one that's a short huff of breath and usually followed by a well-meant lecture on exactly why what Tommy's just whatever'd isn't whatever, but what he gets is a kiss pressed to his shoulder. "Okay," Adam says, hand sliding away from Tommy's belly, back to his ass. "Tell me when you need a break, for any reason."

"Right," Tommy says, resolutely staring at the wall as fingers push between his ass cheeks again, spread him open so Adam can see. Fuck, he really wishes Adam didn't need to see. And that he could stop shaking. "Sure."

"Breathe out for me, baby," Adam says, his tone even, encouraging.

Tommy resists the urge to clench his jaw and does what Adam says, but he still flinches from the touch of the plastic. He fights that urge, too, using every single last scrap of his willpower to stay the fuck where he is as the tube pushes in. The tiny burn, the stretch, isn't wholly unfamiliar. It's a lot fucking different from Adam's fingers, though. Hard and weird, alien.

"Try to stay relaxed for me," Adam says, and holy shit, this is beyond fucked up. No way in hell should that sound anything like the first time they did the dirty, but it does. "Do you need a minute?"

"S'not that fucking big, Christ. Go ahead already."

Adam's back to rubbing his hip again. "There's no rush."

"Plastic tube," Tommy grunts, "up my _ass_."

"Remember, tell me if it's too much." Another kiss, this time to the back of Tommy's neck, and fuck, he kinda wishes Adam would stop doing that. It's making this weirder than it already is. He hunches his shoulders and concentrates on breathing.

There's nothing at first. He sort of expected to feel the flow or something, anything really. He relaxes, startled, and then there's the warmth, a slight change to the thick ache in his belly. It isn't exactly bad, but he wouldn't go so far as to say it's good, or even okay. Just different. Crazy.

"Alright?" Adam asks, his knuckles brushing Tommy's ass as his fingers curl.

"Yeah. I just, fuck." Tommy eyes fly shut again, heat flaring up the back of his neck as his stomach burbles. He knows damn well the water isn't flowing fast at all, that it suddenly hasn't gone from a slow trickle to a flood. But it sure as fuck feels like it. "This is so fucked up. This is so fucking fucked up."

Plastic squeaks as Adam turns the tiny lever, shutting the whole works down. Tommy starts to say no, keep going, just get it fucking over with, but he's too relieved. The full, heavy ache in his belly feels way too much like something it shouldn't. Not the same, not the same at all, but still too much alike with Adam's hands on him, Adam's quiet, steady voice in his ear.

"Okay," Tommy lies. "I'm okay."

Thankfully, Adam doesn't ask if he's sure. And just like before, there isn't anything at first. The slow, spreading warmth comes after the ache this time, and the heavy weight of it overshadows everything else. A hot flush steals over Tommy's face, his chest, creeps out along his limbs. He's shaking again, and he can't stop. Can't stop the noises piling up in his throat, either, or keep them from spilling out in short, hard bursts. His belly hurts in a dull, insistent way, impossible to ignore. He gropes for something to hold on to, finds Adam's hand and clutches it tight.

"That's it," Adam says, "squeeze as hard as you want. You're doing so good, baby. I need you to clench up for me when you're ready. Gonna take this out, and then it's only a few more minutes."

"Fuck," Tommy groans, his whole body strung tight. He flicks a worried glance up at the plastic bag, now hanging limp and empty, all the water that had been in it inside him. He risks looking down at his stomach, expecting to be able to see what Adam's put in him, for his body to look as full as it feels. But his belly's the same tiny bump it always is. He reluctantly lets go of Adam's hand.

"Easy," Adam says, and Tommy would bitch, honestly he would, except it's taking pretty much everything he's got to keep breathing. Both of Adam's hands are on his ass again, one holding him steady while the other pulls lightly on the tube. A tiny, hot trickle of water slides out with it and Tommy groans miserably, plants his face into the pillow as he forces unhappy muscles to clench tighter.

He's not really expecting Adam to sit down on the bed beside him, the slight dip rolling him into Adam's warmth. He straightens his leg back out, hoping it'll help ease the strain, and right away Adam's stroking his belly again, massaging in slow circles that are keeping the worst of the cramps creeping in at bay. Sweat prickles at his hairline.

"Only a few more minutes," Adam repeats, stroking lower, back up again. The inside of his wrist grazes too close to Tommy's groin and Tommy jolts, gasping in the surge of discomfort that follows. His stomach is so not happy with him now, and no fucking way he's going to lose it, make a fucking mess all over the damn place. He freezes, stomping down on the shudders threatening to tear through him.

"Tommy," slowly filters in through the panicked haze. "Tommy, it's alright. You're okay. There's nothing wrong with what you're feeling."

"Like fuck," Tommy wheezes. "Everything is so fucked up about this."

"I'm so sorry," Adam says, and goddammit, he sounds about as miserable as Tommy feels. "I didn't mean to touch you."

It takes more than a few seconds for that to make sense. When it finally does, Tommy wants to die. As if things weren't messed up enough. All he needs is his dick throwing in its two twisted cents worth, seriously. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with him?

Tommy says, "Not your fault," and clumsily pats at the back of Adam's hand. Adam quit rubbing awhile ago, though, and without that slow, soothing rhythm, all Tommy can focus on is the cramp in his guts. "How much longer?"

"Let me worry about that." Adam goes back to rubbing his belly, but it's too late. It hurts worse than before, a steady, throbbing pain ratcheting up his spine. He curls closer around Adam's arm, but that doesn't help either. He digs the heel of his free hand against one eye, fighting back tears.

Tommy barely lasts the time between one heartbeat and the next before he hisses, "Fuck, gotta go. Really fucking gotta go, right now."

Adam's up on his feet in an instant, saying, "Hang on, baby," and Tommy doesn't have time to ask what the hell's going on. Adam gets one arm beneath his shoulders, the other hooked behind his knees, and then he's too fucking busy dying of complete and total mortification as Adam exerts about as much effort carrying him to the bathroom bridal-style as it'd take to lug around a sack of potatoes. This is the worst fucking thing _ever_.

Adam sets him down lightly beside the toilet.

"Jackass," Tommy mutters, clutching at the countertop to keep his feet. "You can go the fuck away now."

Adam doesn't even blink. "I'm not leaving you. Sit."

A sharp twinge cuts Tommy's breath short. "Think I can fucking handle it from here." In about five seconds, he's going to have no choice but to handle it.

"If you want to," Adam says with a nod. "I don't care if you do it standing up. But I'm not going anywhere." He catches Tommy's elbow as the world wavers, and his voice softens. "Baby, please sit down."

"Fuck," Tommy groans, "fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," because he doesn't have a choice anymore. He gives in before his knees give out, buckling down onto the seat, hunched over with his elbows digging into his knees. He doesn't want to do this. He's shaking with how much he doesn't want to do this. It hurts so bad.

"I don't care," Adam says, fingers running gently through Tommy's hair, lifting it away from his face to let cool air rush in. "Just let go. You'll feel so much better if you just let go, baby."

Tommy chokes on a bitter laugh. How do you come back from going through something like this with somebody? Maybe Adam's a little in love with him, yeah, a little caught up, riding the whirlwind thrill. But this, he doesn't even have fucking words for this. So fucked up, so wrong.

The light pressure on the back of Tommy's neck deepens as Adam's grip firms. There's nowhere left for him to go, nothing left for him to do except give in all the way. And it's fucking obscene, that's what it is. Adam's low, encouraging murmur doesn't drown out the sound of water hitting the bowl, a tiny trickle at first and then more as muscles go lax. Relief is an instant, heady thing, draining all of Tommy's strength as water streams out of his body, taking with it all the soreness, the ache he's been living with for days, and replacing it with a sweet endorphin rush, a blissful emptiness. He sways, dizzied, and Adam reaches for him, holds him steady. For a long, long moment, he can barely breathe.

A tingling rush shoots up his spine as Adam gives his neck a comforting squeeze. Sluggishly, he lifts his head, his chin resting against Adam's belly they're so close. His face is hot, burning up. What just happened, what he just did feels distant, dream-hazy. His eyes flutter shut when Adam's thumb grazes his cheek. Something is seriously fucking wrong with him.

"Up," Adam says, and it fucking proves how fucked in the head Tommy is when he doesn't even hesitate. He stands unsteadily, leaning into Adam for support, and watches in a daze as Adam lifts a soaking wet washcloth from the sink. Water streams down his legs as Adam wipes him clean. The soft brush of warm cotton between the cheeks of his ass makes him shiver.

Adam dumps the cloth into the trash. Tommy blinks down at the hand Adam presses to his belly, dazed, confused. He feels like he weighs nothing at all, but he can feel the grout between the tile on his toes, rough and real. Then the chill tile turns to carpet, and the carpet to the brush of towels as he settles down on the bed again, laid out on his belly this time with Adam's fingers grazing the length of his back, all the way down over his ass to his thigh and up again.

"Feel better?" Adam asks.

It takes a minute for Tommy to manage, "Yeah," and his throat clicks when he tries to say more, sticking shut. Finally, utterly lost, he says, "Adam?"

"You don't have to say anything," Adam says, leaning back with one elbow propped up on a pillow, his hand heavy on Tommy's back. "And you don't have to do it again if you don't want to. I think you'll be okay."

Tommy closes his eyes. He'd forgotten all about the doctor's careful warning that once might not be enough, shoving all the scary, medical-sounding words straight out of his head as soon as he left the clinic. He didn't know the aftermath would be like this, though. Didn't even consider what it would be like to put himself in Adam's hands like that.

Always able to see Tommy straight to his core, Adam says, "D'you want to talk about it?"

"Nothing really to talk about, I guess," Tommy says, shying away from it, from Adam, even though now that's what feels wrong.

Quietly, Adam says, "You're still hard, baby." His hand drifts lower, down to the careless spread of Tommy's thighs, the soft crush of Tommy's cock and balls against the bed, and stays there. Not pushing. Offering.

Tommy doesn't want to ask, and he doesn't have to. He hitches his knee up higher, rolls halfway onto his side to give Adam space. Adam doesn't go for it right away, stroking Tommy's balls first, easing the ache there like he had the one in Tommy's belly, then further up, palm skidding dry over Tommy's dick. Biting back a strained noise, Tommy curls closer, that noise slipping free when Adam's arm comes around him, pulls him in and holds him there for the first real tug on his cock, slow and sticky. He rocks into Adam's sure grip, the strangest orgasm of his life rising up like a warm tide. It happens faster than maybe it should, Adam only touching him for a handful of seconds before he comes, lifted up and carried off and worried, yeah, worried just a little about how fuzzy the world's gone, the pleasure and the tips of his fingers and everything in between.

After, he's afraid to move. Sweat is dying cool on his back, his come on Adam's fingers. He's wrung out, exhausted, and he feels better than he has in days. Weeks, even. Like it's the first time he's really relaxed in months, free and floating. But they've taken time out for themselves before. Yeah, went out and partied, got stinking drunk, but other times, too, quieter ones, them and a couch and nowhere special to be.

"You don't have to come back yet," Adam says, and smiles when Tommy flicks him a questioning look. "I can hear you thinking."

"I don't get it," Tommy admits, because he can say things like that to Adam. Even his voice doesn't sound like his own. "I mean, I can feel it, but I don't get it."

Adam's fingers draw tiny circles on Tommy's shoulder. "I don't really think it's something you have to get. Maybe feeling it is enough."

Sleep drags at Tommy's eyelids. "But you get it."

"I get you," Adam says, tugging at the corner of a towel until it covers Tommy's hips, most of his legs. "That's more than enough for me."


End file.
